Kisuke jerks awake at the sound of footsteps, the breath catching in his throat and one hand reaching for his blade—
“Woah, hey, just me,” a vaguely familiar voice announces even as the footsteps halt. “There’s no danger around.”
Kisuke scrubs at his face, trying to shake the cobwebs from his mind, and then glances blearily up at the healer. “How long…?”
The young man shrugs and casually walks an arc around Kisuke, never coming within arm’s reach, as he makes his way to the other side of the table. “I was gone maybe fifteen, twenty minutes? Not sure how long of that you were asleep for.”
Kisuke grimaces at the answer and forces himself straight despite the exhaustion weighing on his limbs. If anything, he’s even more exhausted now than he was before he closed his eyes, but he refuses to show any more weakness—
A bowl of miso soup appears in front of him, fragrant steam wafting from the bowl. He blinks at it, then up at the young healer in question, uncertain when the man had time to make — or even just heat up — anything for him.
(Damn.)
(He hates being like this!)
(Especially around unknowns.)
“Eat,” the man says sternly as he sits down with a bowl of his own, clearly taking his own advice. “I know you probably don’t want to, but your body will thank you later.”
Kisuke makes a face at the man, then carefully picks the warm bowl up and starts to eat without any more fuss; he knows the man is right, everything he’s ever learned agrees with him, but it still burns to be told to eat as if he’s a recalcitrant child.
“I should probably introduce myself,” the young man muses after a moment of silence. “Sorry about that, I’m Sora.”
“Kisuke,” he introduces himself, then twitches towards the doorway as a sound catches his attention—
There’s a tiny child standing in the doorway, with brilliant orange hair and wide, wary brown eyes. She’s staring at him, her little hands clenched tight and her body tense, and Kisuke… Kisuke doesn’t know how to react.
She’s smaller than any child he’s ever met before and clearly terrified of him as well, though he has no idea why; he’s not exactly an imposing presence at the moment, Benihime aside, though he is a stranger, so… perhaps that’s the reason? He has no idea.
“It’s alright, Hime,” Sora says gently, setting his bowl aside and beckoning to the little girl. “Do you want some food?”
Hime nods shyly and then darts across the room, giving Kisuke a wide berth in the process, and practically glues herself to Sora’s side.
Kisuke considers the picture they make as Sora rises and heads back to the small kitchen with Hime, trying to figure out their relationship; Sora looks far too young to be Hime’s father, but the wisps of power that Kisuke can sense from both of them indicate a familial relationship. Siblings, perhaps, or maybe cousins, Kisuke isn’t entirely sure.
Not that it really matters, he reminds himself, shoving his curiosity aside in favor of refocusing on his food. Whoever they are, however they’re related, it’s none of his business.
(No matter how curious he is.)
Sora returns to the table with Hime still glued to his side, and Hime promptly settles in Sora’s lap the moment he sits back down, a small bowl of soup cradled carefully in her hands. Sora seems accustomed to it, at least, so Kisuke sort of hopes it is her usual way and that it isn’t because of him.
He tears his gaze away from them. Focuses on his food. Reminds himself that Sora insisted he stay so there’s no point in worrying about it.
Tomorrow he will see Erich, will assure himself that Erich is fine, and then… then he’ll do… something.
(He’ll figure it out later.)
(He’s too tired right now.)
(Later will be fine.)
The sound of footsteps down the hall wakes Kisuke at a frankly horrific hour — the sun isn’t even above the horizon yet! — and he rolls over with a groan, pulling the blankets high over his head.
(Morning people are the worst.)
(Ugh!)
He manages a bit more sleep before the drumming of tiny feet racing down the hall wakes him once more.
(At least this time the sun is over the horizon, but damn these people are early risers!)
Kisuke rubs a hand over his face, debates burying himself in his borrowed bed for another few hours of rest, and then reluctantly sets the thought aside and drags himself out of bed: the sooner he’s up and about, the sooner he can check on Erich.
(The sooner he can set his worries aside and figure out what his next step will be.)
(He still hasn’t decided.)
(Doesn’t know if he wants to decide.)
(Doesn’t even know if Erich will allow him close—)
(No.)
(One step at a time.)
“Morning,” Sora says as Kisuke steps into the main room, then nods towards the table and adds, “Take a seat, I’ll have breakfast ready soon.”
“Maa, you don’t—”
“So I’m supposed to ignore you and just feed myself and Hime?” Sora asks sharply, then closes his eyes and take a deep breath, shaking off the edge of anger in the process. “Erich won’t be awake for another hour or so,” he says with confidence. “So sit down, eat, and let me make sure that I didn’t make a mistake last night when I let you go to bed without checking you for injuries first.”
“Ah, I’m fine, you don’t—”
“Kisuke,” Sora bites out, then tips his head back to stare at the ceiling as if praying for patience. “Stop arguing with me,” he says in exasperation. “You aren’t burdening me or whatever else is going through your mind right now. I have more than enough food to share with you, and healing is what I do for the townsfolk here. Just… let me do my job. Please.”
Kisuke grimaces but concedes the argument with a nod. He’s fine, he knows he’s fine, but he can use this opportunity to assess how skilled a healer Sora is.
Healers — actual, trained, powerful healers — are rare out in the wild-lands, with most people resorting to the more reliable methods using herbs and poultices and a simple needle and thread to keep a body together. Those skills, at least, can be passed on to anyone with the patience for it, unlike Healing.
So he sits across from Hime, and he settles his mind, and he watches as Sora dishes out breakfast and brings the trays to the table, setting one in front of Hime, one next to her, and the third in front of Kisuke: it’s a very traditional looking meal, with miso soup, rice, some seared fish, and some vegetable sides, but Kisuke’s portion is certainly larger than he expected to receive.
(Not many people understand exactly what it means to be a Shinigami, especially in regards to their food intake.)
(The consideration is… nice.)
Before he can remark upon it though, Sora is kneeling next to him, power gathering around one hand, and—
Waiting.
Expectantly, but waiting, instead of simply reaching out to touch. Sora’s power is calm-patience-focus to Kisuke’s senses, but it doesn’t stray far beyond Sora’s body, just pools around his right hand and stays there.
(Not entirely untrained, then.)
(Good.)
(He can work with that.)
Sora doesn’t move until Kisuke nods, and even then he doesn’t do anything abruptly: he just casually leans in, telegraphing his movements in a manner that feels like habit, and sets his hand on Kisuke’s shoulder. His power slides into Kisuke’s body like water, not a single rough edge present, and slowly spreads out, lingering in all the myriad scrapes and bruises and minor wounds that Kisuke had picked up during the previous day’s combat.
Kisuke breathes through the uncomfortable sensation of a stranger’s power wending beneath his skin and forces his mind to focus, forces himself to pay attention—
Sora is not exactly an unskilled healer, Kisuke decides as the young man carefully heals him, and he’s certainly not an unpracticed healer, he’s just… not trained to the level Kisuke would expect of a Shinigami healer. Through no fault of his own, of course, but gaps in knowledge can be deadly, especially out here.
As Sora withdraws his powers and pulls back, Kisuke gives the young man a considering look, debating if he wants to offer lessons, if he wants to share Shinigami secrets with an unaffiliated healer—
“Thank you for letting me check,” Sora says with a small bow, interrupting Kisuke’s thoughts. “Forgive me for ignoring you last night. I knew you’d been fighting, but—”
“You were exhausted,” Kisuke cuts in with a shake of his head. “We both needed sleep more than I needed healing.”
Sora grimaces at Kisuke’s words but gives a shallow nod of agreement. “This time, yes. But—” he cuts himself off and looks away, rising to his feet in order to move to his spot at the table next to Hime. “Never mind,” he murmurs as he sits back down. “Please, eat. And let me know if you need more. I know approximately how much Erich needs after a fight, but I’m unfamiliar with a Shinigami’s precise needs.”
“This will be plenty,” Kisuke reassures Sora even as he files away the man’s clear displeasure with his current level of skill; with luck, that means Sora will be open to some lessons, especially if Kisuke can convince Tessai to be Sora’s teacher.
(It’s just good business to have trained healers in places where Kisuke frequents.)
(Really, that’s his only motivation.)
(Whatever else Sora does with his lessons is up to him.)
Kisuke takes a few bites of food, considering how best to ask, then decides to simply go for it. “Would you want to learn more healing skills?” At Sora’s wide-eyed look, Kisuke shrugs awkwardly and focuses on the food in front of him. “I could ask a friend if he’d be willing to teach you, if you want. Tessai wasn’t an official Healer when we were Shinigami, but he knows more than enough. And… if he doesn’t want to, I, uh… I’m not unskilled, just… not the best at teaching people,” Kisuke can’t help but ramble as Sora continues to simply stare at him.
Sora’s chopsticks click against the rest as he sets them down, the sound weirdly loud in the silence that falls as Kisuke stops talking. At his side, Hime blinks up at him and then across at Kisuke, clearly understanding that something important is going on, but not entirely certain what.
“Ah… sorry if that was out of line,” Kisuke mumbles, resisting the urge to hunch his shoulders at the attention. He doesn’t know if — or how — he’s stepped wrong, but an apology seems prudent.
(It’s the best way he’s found to deal with these sort of mistakes, especially when he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.)
(People always seem to overlook that when he apologizes.)
“What’s the catch,” Sora asks, his brows furrowed and something dark-wary-suspicious creeping into his presence.
Kisuke blinks. “Catch?” he echoes in surprise, then pauses, frowns, and slowly says, “I’m not expecting anything except future healing in return.” He meets Sora’s gaze firmly, hoping to convince the young man of his sincerity, and adds, “I’m an ex-Shinigami, and so is Tessai. This is where we live now, so… doesn’t it make sense to offer? Someday, one or both of us might need a skilled healer.”
Sora watches him, wariness slowly fading, then nods once and picks his chopsticks back up. “I’ll think on your offer,” is all he says on the topic.
“Let me know whatever you decide,” Kisuke says as he turns back to his meal. “The offer will remain open.”
Sora hums softly, a touch of disbelief in his tone, but says nothing else.
Kisuke figures that’s the best he’s going to get.
(The offer’s there and that’s all that matters.)
(That’s good enough.)